This War Is Over
by potidaea
Summary: "Natasha Romanoff fell slowly, agonizingly so. Both times. First, for Maria Hill. Then, on Vormir."


Natasha Romanoff fell slowly, agonizingly so. Both times.

First, for Maria Hill. Then, on Vormir.

She didn't notice it at first…the way her eyes lingered; or that every time Maria Hill led a briefing she found a reason to stay behind; or that she memorized the Deputy Director's coffee order (_black, one sugar_ \- unless she was in a bad mood, _a cortado with cinnamon_) and could tell which of any ten identical S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms the brunette was wearing based on how they fit over her curves (she was just a good spy, she'd say if asked); or how the world started to melt away to a single, beautiful point as the concrete in which she had encased her heart crumbled, day by day.

But then one day, she was on a mission with the Deputy Director's voice in her ear and suddenly a blade grazed her thigh in an all-too-easy attack. She could have subdued the man with her hands tied behind her back. Literally. She had done it many times before. It was, frankly, more fun that way. The only difference was Maria Hill. She was a _distraction_.

To test her theory, she antagonized the former Marine into a sparring match. Hill was matching her every move. For every punch, a block; every attempted grapple, an escape. She thought she'd found the Deputy Director's weak spot, when suddenly she was on her back. Pinned, with a smug brunette hovering above. Normally, the Black Widow could easily escape this type of hold, use it to her advantage even. But in that moment, she was not Black Widow. She was Natasha and she was inches from everything she ever wanted.

"You're slacking, Romanoff," was all Maria said before jumping up to return to her usual training routine.

_Shit._ Natasha thought as she watched her saunter off. She was fucked. She couldn't do this. She was a killer. No more than a living, breathing weapon. She wasn't made for love. And Maria? Maria was a goddamn pinnacle of morality. She wouldn't, shouldn't give her a second glance. The best course of action would be to just forget.

So, for the next few years, that's what Natasha did. Forget. Or at least she made a good show of pretending that she wasn't hanging on Maria Hill's every word, devouring every last glimpse she could catch of the woman.

They became friends. First, over late nights of post-op paperwork, then drinks, then weekly sparring matches.

The first time she hugged Maria she was met with a stiff body and a "I didn't take you for a hugger." She just shrugged and said, "I'm a touchy drunk." She wasn't. But from that point on, Maria never questioned her affection so long as she had a glass of alcohol in her hand. Natasha took what she could get. It was easier once S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. She couldn't avoid her at the Triskelion, but Maria Hill wasn't her boss anymore. It was an easy out…it was also one she didn't take. Instead, they continued their as-weekly-as-possible meetups at a local dive bar.

One night over pizza and beer, Maria looked at her with a nervous smile. "Can I ask you something?"

_Fuck, does she know?_ "Yeah, what's up?" Her face betrayed no emotion.

"I mean, you know I'm gay, right?" Natasha nodded. "I've been seeing Sharon. It's been getting...kind of serious. Should I tell Steve?"

_Oh._ It was sucker punch to the gut. She expected anything but this. _Just breathe, Romanoff. She can't know. How did __**I**__ not know?_ "Steve's a big boy and the intelligence community is small. But if you're worried about it getting weird, sure." She stopped herself from averting her eyes, sipping her beer to avoid picking at the label anxiously.

Maria just nodded and changed the subject. The basketball game plastered on every screen in the bar was apparently make-or-break for the red team ("My team," Maria said). Natasha didn't know or care to know about sports, but she was grateful enough for the topic change to feign interest through the ache in her chest. She was grateful, yes, but she was also bitter enough to be jealous of the athletes moving swiftly across the screen - simply because they were good enough to be _hers_.

Then, The Snap.

She wondered if Maria's last thoughts were of Sharon. She wondered if Sharon was one of the dusted, but didn't care enough to confirm. The parts of her that were still cruel hoped Sharon was around to hurt like her, walking the Earth every day with a sucking hole in her chest that could never be filled again.

Natasha spent the next five years trying to bring Maria back, even if that meant she fell back into Sharon's arms. As long as Maria was back. As long as Maria was happy. She only slept or ate when she remembered - which wasn't often and usually wasn't particularly nutritious. Sometimes she'd go watch the whales come through the Hudson; just sit for hours, waiting…reminiscing, wishing. Maria would have loved it. ("Considering this is meant to be our honeymoon, I think we can afford an extra hour to whale watch," the brunette said with a conspiratorial smirk as she dragged Natasha onto a boat in Baja California. It wasn't real, she reminded herself. They were undercover. But her eyes were still bluer than the water.)

She spent years tracking Clint. He was so painfully angry. Natasha knew that anger well; it bubbled up when she drank - which was most nights since The Snap. Anything to forget. But she knew if she could just fix it all, his wife would forgive him. His children would forgive him. He was never a murderer. He wasn't _her_.

So, on Vormir there was no decision to be made. She made it years ago. Save Maria. Save Clint. Save them all. There was nothing left of her life to be saved. Never was. A child of the Red Room never truly leaves.

But Clint caught her off guard - said something that made her think he knew, that he'd always known. It made her want to save him even more. _Why would he die so someone __**might**__ love me? _

"It's okay," she told him. She fell. Death came slower than she thought. But finally, the fight was over.


End file.
